


Salt, Lime, and Faeries

by bonzai_bunny



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Body Shots, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Frottage, M/M, Tequila, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonzai_bunny/pseuds/bonzai_bunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems like at America's Halloween party, more is hidden than just faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt, Lime, and Faeries

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic upload from FF.net. More frus with some unrequited feelings.

Before America changes into his costume, he decides to check and see how things are going in the kitchen (he does have actual food prepared, not just sweets) and is shocked to see that, for some reason, all of his cooking staff has disappeared. Or, more worrying, France is there with a bottle of alcohol in his hand, surveying the half-finished food. America has many questions, but the first he blurts out is,

“What are you _doing_?”

France looks up and smiles (one of those smiles that always makes America’s heart beat a little faster, but the other will never know that) and seems completely nonplussed at getting caught.

“I am trying to decide how much of this,” he lifts the bottle, “I’m going to need before fixing this,” he says, gesturing to the food for emphasis. America just frowns, confused. That does not explain anything in the least bit.

“I mean what did you do with my staff?” He clarifies, “and where did you get that?”

“Ah, you are not very good at hiding your alcohol, Amérique. And I told your staff they could leave, that their services were no longer needed.

“But _why_?” America isn’t sure if he’s angrier that France dismissed his staff, or angrier that they believed him, especially considering that France was wearing a Peter Pan costume.

“Because their cooking was atrocious! I simply could not stand back and let it happen any longer.”

America steps closer and looks at the rest of the food, perplexed. “It looks fine to me.”

France sighs dramatically and loosens the top to what America has successfully identified as tequila.

“And that, mon cher, is why I need this.” But before France can take a swig of it, America holds his arm back with a, “Wait!”

France pauses and raises an eyebrow.

“Not like that. Don’t drink it like that. Hold on.” France waits and watches, amused, as America gets out various things from the around kitchen which includes two shot glasses, a lime, and salt. Then America cuts the lime (with surprising skill, France thinks) into wedges and pours two shots of the bottle that was set down. France smiles silkily at the other.

“Are you joining me, Amérique?

“Nah, just demonstrating,” America smiles back, completely oblivious, and picks up the salt and goes through the whole process of licking his hand, pouring on salt, licking the salt, taking the shot, then biting the lime. He doesn’t look at France the whole time, and after he’s done, he can feel the tequila burning in his belly, making his cheeks a little hotter.

“You got that?”

France shakes his head with a discreet smile. “Non, I’m afraid you’ll have to help me.”

The advance flies over America’s head, as predicted again, so he sighs and says, “Alright, I’ll show you again,” but before he can lick the salt off of his own hand, France grabs his wrist and stares at the other, his eyes smoldering with something appealing and dangerous (something full of desire, America realizes and his heart beats faster).  

“I said help me, not demonstrate, mon lapin.” Then France, bold as always, slowly licks the salt off, enjoying how red the boy turns, and America shivers, unable to keep from watching as France takes a shot himself (paying particular attention to the curve of France’s neck when he tosses his head back and how wet his lips are once he’s done).

(God, he’s never looked so pretty.)

America knows that he really should stop now, but France’s expression urges him on (raised eyebrows in a challenge) and he takes France’s hand before repeating the ritual (licking the other’s hand, pouring on salt, licking the salt, and shot). He is equally shocked and embarrassed when he has to bite the lime out of France’s hand, but it’s the type of embarrassment that makes his pulse quicken and his loins burn and, entranced, he’s completely forgotten about the party by now.

He bites his lip when France takes his hand, before any salt is on it, and brushes kisses to his knuckles before licking them and the sensitive webs between his fingers. America realizes he’s breathing too hard when France turns over his hand and licks his palm (at this point he realizes he’s also trapped; too aroused and intrigued) and is almost caught by surprise when France actually goes through with the rest of the shot.

He nearly trembles when he takes France’s hand (how is he supposed to one-up _that_?) but France says,

“Non. Not my hand” and sweeps back his hair to reveal his long, pale neck.

_Oh God_ , America thinks, but finds himself coming forward, too trapped to stop, and in a sort of dazed (slightly drunk to be honest) state, he presses his lips to France’s neck before he licks the soft skin, the curve of his Adam’s apple. The lenses of America’s glasses press against France’s jaw, but he makes a pleased noise deep in his throat, like a purr, that encourages America to use the salt in that “lick-shoot-suck” pattern and the tequila makes him even warmer than possible. They are pressed closed together and America swears that France can feel his heartbeat.

“Y-your turn,” he slurs as though it wasn’t obvious and France tilts up his chin so their eyes meet.  The cobalt of France’s eyes seems to burn through him.

“Oui,” he breathes and their lips meet in a tequila laced kiss. It’s not smooth or slow, like France normally is, but a little sloppy and mostly desperate. All of that restrained passion is now unleashed and America, on a complete whim, picks France up and sets him on the counter. Their tongues clash, even hotter, as France’s legs wrap around America’s waist and he brings their groins together. America moans, loud and unabashed into France’s mouth, and is somewhat surprised to feel the warmth of France’s arousal.

The older nation breaks the kiss and sucks hungrily along America’s neck as America struggles to unzip his trousers before rutting shamelessly against the other (he figured it was fair since the other was wearing tights).

“Mmm, France,” he murmurs with a bright flush when France cups and squeezes his behind (God _damn_ why does that feel so good?), “I wanna fuck.”

America’s sure that he isn’t at his most eloquent, but he hopes France understands what he means.

“We are,” France gasps lightly, arching into the other, grinding their cocks together.

“No, nooo. I mean. I want you to…to fuck _me_.” And it is there that France stops. He looks at the other, at America’s unfocused eyes, his flushed face and says simply,

“You are too drunk for that, Amérique.”

America pouts, feeling the initial warmth beginning to fade away. “No ‘m not! Just a little tipsy, is all,” he slurs, but truthfully he feels drunker and drunker by the second.  

“I’m sure you wouldn’t ask for that if you were sober.”

“Not true! I-I mean….it’s great whenever we fuck and all but….but you never wanna fuck me.”

“I was never under the impression that you wanted me to,” France frowns. Just to help to stave off the edge of his arousal, he begins to slowly grind again and America moans and rests his head on France’s shoulder. It takes him a minute to start talking again and when he does, his voice is low and slurred and distant.

“It’s diff’cult to talk to you sober…can’t tell you stuff like….how beautiful you are an’—an’ how much I want you,” he breaks off with a gasp and holds on to France’s back. He can feel the damp spot his cock is making against his boxers and the heaviness of his arousal and they grind in silence, slowly picking up pace.

“Fuck!” America says suddenly. “I—I _hate_ drinking!”

That makes France want to laugh for some reason (he knows the other is terrible at holding his liquor) so he does. His laugh has always reminded America of church bells and so he tells France so. Then he tells France why he hates drinking, especially on this night.

“Super….supernatural shit, it always hurts me when I’m like this…tonight. You know like. _Fairies_ and ghosts and shit.”

“Why do they hurt you?”

“‘Cause I hurt them…the ghosts I mean. The fairies are kinda like you. Clever. Think that’s why Iggy likes ‘em.”

France doesn’t comment on either admission, but realizes that he’s not going to find release anytime soon at the pace they are going and with America babbling on like this. So he unhooks his legs and slides down his tights and hisses when his cock hits the cooler air. America seems to get the idea and pushes his prick between the slit in his boxers. He sucks in a breath when France wraps his hand around both of them, eased by the slickness of their pre-cum.

America once again rests his head on France’s shoulder and shuts his eyes, feeling warmth overwhelming him from his chest to his toes. His cock his throbbing and it feels like his whole body is pulsating, that he and France are just one heartbeat. And with a groan, he comes over France’s hand long before the other and he feels suddenly exhausted so he slides down to the floor and watches as France continues to stroke himself. It’s mesmerizing in a way (the other has always been beautiful, no matter what he does), and eventually France comes as well with a quiet gasp.

There is a warm silence after, not necessarily awkward, but not pleasant either.

“I need to finish cooking, Amérique.”

America snorts at that. “Think we con…contaminated the food.”

“Then that is a perfect excuse to make more. Come on, get up.”

He doesn’t, so France finds a paper towel and proceeds to wipe himself and America off. America simply watches his movements with an exhausted smile and eventually stumbles to get up as well.

“You gonna drink the rest of that?” He points at the tequila, the start of this all.

“Non, and before you ask, you are not either.” America pouts but doesn’t argue.

“Besides I have a treat for myself later that I need to stay a little sober for.”

“Like what?”

France intertwines his arm with the other to keep him steady and smiles, “Fairy dust. It will help me fly.”

America’s eyebrows rise in surprise, completely missing the other’s meaning, and asks, “Can I have some? Heroes can fly!”

“I’m sorry Amérique, but I only have enough for one.”

America frowns and mutters sullenly, “Y’ could share.”

“Perhaps some other time, I’m sorry.” France stops and smiles (And America’s heart flutters a little). “I will take you flying with me, I promise.”

“An’….we can fight crime?”

France laughs his church bell laugh and gives the other a peck on the cheek. “Yes. Now go on. I need to finish before people riot over lack of food.”

Before America finds himself pushed out of the kitchen, he leans into France, capturing his smell, his feel, his essence, and feels a sort of lightheaded warmth that sprouts through his chest.

“I love ya,” he blurts before he realizes what he’s said. The grin on France’s face freezes and he seems very unsure of what to make of that statement. He gives that other laugh of his, like what America has said is some joke.

“You are very drunk Amérique…I’m sure you don’t mean that.” 

America tries to argue otherwise (tries to tell him, _No, you gave me liberty, how could I possibly not love you for that_?) but his tongue is tangled with inebriation and he is suddenly outside of the kitchen door. Then he buries his face in his hands, frustrated and drunk. He isn’t quite sure what just happened, but he hopes he doesn’t remember any of this in the morning time.

Mostly, he just hopes that one day, he and France will be able to fly together.                


End file.
